Lew's Song
by KateEals
Summary: Leah speaks of a burning man. Jules thinks of Lew. Jules' thoughts while Leah talks about losing a teammate while a fire fighter in "Never Let You Down". Is there JAM, of course there's hints of it; is there sarcasm, surprisingly, no. But, oh, look, ANGST!


**Author's Note:** So I was re-reading DP this afternoon, because I want update it, btw, and decided to watch a few episodes of the show to get back into the feel of things. I was feeling disgruntled, so of course I chose to watch "One Wrong Move" and that of course lead to "Never let You Down," which lead to me to getting inspired by how pissed off Jules is during most to the episode, especially when Leah starts talking about being there to talk to her about losing Lew in the beginning of the episode. Hence, this story. Also, I've always wanted to explore a piece in the second person, and I can't think of anything more appropriate for that than Jules' thoughts in NLYD. 'Kay? Awe, jeez Louise, it's already Sat. morning. I'll end this here.

I don't own or have rights to Flashpoint.

Lew's Song

You stare at her, and you want to spit in her face. Not because of who she is, but because of the he she isn't. She tells you that you can talk to her, but all you want to do is scream at her. A burning man dies alone; a blown up man has a speaker to the world: your world, your communication link, your best friend who's in actuality anything but a spike. A blown up man dies in your ears while your brain tries to deny what your eyes see, but can't; a blown up man is smoke, debris, broken limbs, and broken dreams. A burning man is in the bones of a collapsed building; she doesn't know what it's like to see the bones of a collapsed man flash out his light, his life, before her eyes. You do. You wish you didn't.

You speak, and your voice is raw, hallow. Not because you don't know what to say, but because you know that what you say won't be understood. You know that the words you really want to say are for someone else. You know the words you really want to say are ones that are the only ones that get you through the day; they're the words that you convince yourself he always knew. The words that told him he was always loved, and cherished, and wanted, and smart, and great, greater than the jobs he was always delegated on the team. You want to tell him that his humility inspired you, that his skill and intelligence made you want to work just that much harder to be more than just a sniper. You want to tell him that he, not Greg, made you want to use your words before your gun. You want to tell him that you wish he'd gotten to use his words more often. You want to tell him that he was often TOO shy, TOO humble, that now, after everything, you wished he'd been louder, more outspoken, more prominent, less of a throw away who just took a bomb call because Spike was too far out. Because you gave Spike the news that he was too far out as you drove through the streets of a city that didn't know it was about to lose a hero.

You remember when he was more than just Young, when he was young and whole, and happy, and willing to try to race you down the side of a building. You remember how fun it was to be chided by Ed and Sarge for doing what you weren't supposed to be doing; you remember what it was like to be free before Sam and media towers that somehow have something to do with double bacon burgers and wanting to run for your life, because, gosh darn-it, you freakn' love that man and can't fight it; you remember what it was like to non-ironically blast and sing along to Carly Simon with Spike and Him down the freeway after you three got stuck in the downpour of a cold front while running to your car after a Carol King-James Taylor reunion concert, Carolina's heat in your minds in the mid-September cool of Toronto. You wish things were simpler, that bullets didn't strike people at the top of City Hall, that cocky blond snipers didn't fall in love with unavailable brunette snipers, that boys with cellos didn't get accosted in the streets, that good men from good families who had flawed but good friends didn't get blown up because not enough trees got saved.

You think of how you thought that day and just wish, knowing you can't, that you could plant as many freakn' trees as needed to bring him back.

But you can't.

He's not young. He's Young on the plaque in the men's locker room.

A locker never used doesn't satisfy you. A jersey in the sky above thousands wouldn't satisfy you. Only a man, young and not just Young on a wall, a locker, a name in the ether, would satisfy you.

But you can't have that.

Instead you have your hate, and your disgruntlement, and your distrust.

A man is not Young anymore. A man is not burning. A man, though he was burned out of doing more than what he was used for, is dust before time made him so.

And she talks about burning men while all you do is burn inside. All you want to do is put a hand over her mouth to make her stop talking, to fall into Sam's arms for comfort instead of Wordy's socially acceptable ones.

All you want is for Lew to give Sam that recipe for steak that has the consistency of shoe leather.

But you can't.

Lew's gone.

And you're left not with Leah's burning man, but your burning soul.

And the worst part is, you know you all are, and you think how there is nothing you can do about it.

 **Additional Author's Note:** Please leave a review and let me know what you think of this one-shot. I personally need to review and reply to a couple of things I've read this week too…mea culpa, mea culpa…I'll get to it…


End file.
